


Where the Good Weed Hides

by TheManSings



Series: Gallavich Week [2]
Category: Shameless (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:31:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManSings/pseuds/TheManSings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey swears he's only staying at this party for 30 minutes and he doesn't give a shit who that red head is so long as he gets out of his room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Good Weed Hides

The last time Mickey landed in juvie his court appeal had been-- _annoying_.

It’s a cycle that is nearly set in stone. You fuck up, you get a sympathetic slap on the wrist, you pay your dues. But don’t be mistaken, this is _not_ the land of second chances, this is the land of third and fourths. Because the second time Mickey landed in front of that judge for rightfully smashing that kids head in with a bottle he was told to _get his shit together_ and _be a man_.

So like a man he told the dipshit to fuck off and winked at the pretty parole agent while thinking about how much he’d rather be bent over for the guard.

But this had been the third time and he could feel himself looping back around to sympathy. When the judge lowered his hands, glasses slipping down his stupid fucking nose Mickey could feel it. He was in the clear – golden fucking goose.

_“Mr. Milkovich,” He spoke the words softly as if the name itself was too much of a burden for the young man to bear. “This is your third time here and I have to say – I had hoped I wouldn’t see you again.”_

_“You and about every other person I’ve ever met.” He shot back with a smile._

_The judge sighed and massaged his head leaving discolored circles of glistening sweat. God how stressful was it really to be sitting on that side? Mickey could only imagine the agonizing life choices going through his mind. Should he have meatloaf for dinner? And if he does, should he put gravy on it?_

_“I’m inclined to offer you a deal—“_

And there it was, the third chance ticket of pity. Get out of town, stay out of trouble, don’t come back.

And he did. He got out of town, stayed relatively out of trouble, tried his hardest not to come back. It’d been almost two years since that hearing – the longest he’d gone since first winding up in juvie without having to fucking go back. His name now on the white cinderblock walls in there and a guy name Jerry who was just a tad too fucking clingy for his liking.

He couldn’t risk his fourth chance because he’d never really gotten around to testing out that theory. For all he knew the judge might just flip him off and send him to actual prison.

With his fucking dad. No thanks.

Yet here he was, dragging his filthy feet up the front steps of his filthy house in the filthy fucking southside. Mandy having all but begged him to show up for her 16th birthday and _Mickey I never see you anymore._

He scratched at his arm grimacing while looking up and down at the windows teaming with bodies of dickheads he’d no doubt screwed over in a deal at some point. You know how they say to not eat where you shit?

It was like he was going to a shit buffet.

The door flung open and his sister stood momentarily looking like an emaciated zombie. The stun of his actual presence rendering her momentarily speechless and apparently fucking paralyzed.

“30 minutes. That’s it.”

She squealed racing – no, scratch that--- fucking _flying_ down the stairs and jumping directly into his arms.

“Oh Mickey thank you thank you thank you!” She squeezed tighter in an attempt to actually kill him and he tensed holding his breath so as not to accidentally catch the affection.

He spit her hair out from his mouth and pulled away. “Yea whatever skank, don’t get used to it.”

Mandy smiled still practically breaking her face into a grimace because Milkovich’s don’t really smile. They just mimic facial expressions with a lack of sense behind it and that can’t ever look welcoming, no matter how hard they try.

The party was dismal. No one was there for her birthday, no one even _knew_ it was her birthday or where they were or if there was more beer or if that was coke or heroin. A perfect fucking petri dish of exactly where you _don’t_ want a kid to come out of and more likely than not where the next half of the babies being born would be conceived.

He knocked around finding any drink he could and casually flipping off all the stupid faces that looked at him before jamming his arm behind the fridge into that little crack in the wall to get to the good weed. The weed he’d had to hide, ridiculously, so that Iggy or his dad or any of their halfwit inbred cousins wouldn’t find and smoke.

Because this was his. Mickey’s. The last good thing he wanted to actually put in his mouth.

“Jesus fuck!” Mandy’s shrill voice crawled up his spine like hearing the shot that killed bambi’s mother – which he still wasn’t over by the way—sending something sick and twisting inside of him.

A vase shattered _they had vases?_ His head ducking to dodge a stray can and who the fuck threw beer? Mandy had really took a turn for pussies the rate this crowd was going.

But there was a body on the floor kicked and curled onto the side looking something akin to a log. Like maybe the foot might be the thing that actually breaks the more it hits.

Mandy whirled hysterical with eyes brimming red and it could have been _her_ weed. “Do something!” Why?

Mickey raised an eyebrow like _bitch what are you on_ and lit up a cigarette before pocketing both the stolen lighter and pack of fucking _menthols_ that some idiot was pawning off as a thing worth smoking.

“Ian!” Mandy screamed again tears now running down her sloppy face. Her hands wildly reaching out to jump into the brawl herself and while it could have been worse, he didn’t want to risk it.

“Jesus fuck—“ He grabbed her arm nearly recoiling at the way it felt similar to a twig.

“Mickey! Do _something_!” She wept again clawing at his skin drawing fucking blood. “That’s my boyfriend!” She finally shrieked reaching goddamn banshee level.

And it was odd because Mandy didn’t have boyfriends and if she did—she certainly didn’t give a fuck about them. Fact is she’d most likely be mortified about having a boyfriend who wasn’t fighting back and bashing heads in as a counter method.

But the whole thing was getting to his head and his thirty minute had been up about 20 minutes ago.

The kicker was a sloppy fighter. No skill—hell no balance. It took nearly nothing for Mickey to grab onto his neck, digging his dirty short nails into the pale flesh, to yank him off. The entire world already spinning for the loser, he did nothing but help the inevitable.

Mickey hates a bad fight, leaves him itching for something more. A broken nose, a good fuck, whiskey straight, or best of all a burger. On the days he could get all four you’d might as well kill him then because it was the peak of all potential happiness.

Mandy rushed over huddling down next to the body by his feet and he could swear he’d seen him around. Another lost face of a lowlife that he’d filed away as someone unimportant. Red hair now tinged with red blood.

This was getting boring.

He stormed off making sure to catch his shoe against the kids chest and trip walked to his old room. All his shit was still there and yea he guessed he still kinda technically lived there but it didn’t matter.

His bed creaked groaning with nonuse and the rustle of bodies in the bathroom made him jump up in rage.

“Get the fuck out! Can’t you read!”

A skinny blonde and some big black dude fell out strung up on something. Her nose was bleeding and just fucking _great_. Now he’d have to fucking sanitize before he could take a piss.

Mickey shook his head quick trying to remind himself that he wasn’t staying. His 30 minutes were up.

The joint he’d jammed behind his ear before dealing with the microburst of shit in the living room made its way to his hand. He could smell it taking the place of shitty cologne and jizz and for a second it was nice to just sit alone.

“Is the bathroom open?”

He turned his head, a threat on his lips when he saw the same fucking red headed log from the floor. Mandy’s boyfriend.

His lip was split and bleeding, a haphazard attempt to stifle it being of little use by the way his shirt was pulled up toward his face. “The fuck wants to know?”

A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows and he moved his hand away to speak more clearly. A bruise was turning blue already running up the side of his cheek and stretching out like a spider web down his neck.

“You don’t remember me?” There was almost an air of humor to the words. “I believe your parting words were ‘cocksucker Gallagher’ after I kicked you in the nuts for beating up my brother?”

“Oh you’ve gotta be _fucking_ kidding me.” Mickey groaned running a hand down his face. “Fucking baby Gallagher?”

Ian shrugged walking over and having the audacity to actually sit on his bed.

“You know I’ve got other siblings right?” He dug a crumpled cigarette out from his own pocket and reached across Mickey’s lap to grab for the lighter. “I’m not the youngest.”

He scoffed fucking irritated and pissed.

Because this was not the same snot nosed shit that he’d seen 2 years ago. A good 5 inches taller and somehow draped in lean but strong muscle. Why the fuck hadn’t he fought back?

“Didn’t want to make it into something bigger.”

Mickey jumped. Had he said that out loud?

Ian wrapped his lips around the cigarette wincing at the way it pulled at his blood caked skin.

“You’re fucking my sister?”

Gallagher turned hesitantly something amusing playing on his face.

Mickey flexed his fingers feeling his knuckles crack. Ian’s eyes following his movements dodging to his neck and face and back again at the door to the party. He didn’t answer—just continued blowing smoke rings at him like he had some fucking place in his non-life here.

He could feel his body twitch, wanting that fight or fuck.

Ian laughed only seconds before Mickey landed his first hit to his face because you know what? He’d never fucking said he could come in. And he sure as fuck didn’t say he could sit on his bed using his stolen lighter asking to use his contaminated bathroom.

He should have left 20 minutes ago. Because now he was way overdue and his body was shaking and Ian was fighting back and he had to bite his lip to make sure that his grunt of violence didn’t come out a moan.

The irony of his last words having been spoken to the man ringing loudly in his head when Mickey found the second thing worthy of being put in his mouth that night.

Found it right in the middle of his goddamn bedroom floor.


End file.
